Shirtless
by Silania
Summary: Basic PWP [B-ChanxSchuSchu] Involves sex, shirtless Schuldig and a puke green child's toy.


You heard it all before. Weiss ain't mine. If they were there would definitely be a B-Chan/SchuSchu pairing.  
  
Warning: Smut. Rated for language and yaoi.  
  
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So he's lying in the middle of the floor; and there's something with sharp edges and painted a puke shade of green digging into his back. But he won't move, can't move, he's too lazy. And of course, he has green eyes, and red hair - a cold smirk on a generous mouth and an acid kind of tongue.  
  
He eats away the barriers of your mind, like a weasel, or a fox, or a snake.  
  
Pick and choose, baby, pick and choose.  
  
The first time they met he said, "I can be whatever you want me to be." And it's true. With one simple twist of thoughts, he'll be a brunette, or a blonde; you might as well be looking into violet eyes or chocolate colored eyes. He could be a man, he could be a woman, and all with one little mental touch. Such power, and yet he's lazy, too lazy to move from the puke green child's toy digging into his back.  
  
Maybe he's just being provocative, lying there, no shirt on. Red hair so bright on pale skin, jade eyes focusing and oh yes, he's wearing a 'come hither and fuck me' look. Not a jaded look, but a sexual look. All pouty lips and fiery hair and sultry eyes. And of course he's saying, " I can be whatever you want me to be." But what he doesn't know. He doesn't know that the tall American before him, all he wants is red hair and pale skin. Thin body that can slip between the weave of time and move at supernatural speeds. All he wants is to go over them and fuck the redhead till neither can move.  
  
And what does he do? He just stays seated in a hard-backed chair, one dark eyebrow raised, peering over thin-rimmed glasses. Of course, were he any other person right now. He'd be fucking like a rabid hyena on a designer drug. But he's Brad and Brad is always cool and collected. Cool and fucking neat and fucking collected. And if only Schuldig could say something, but all he can do is stretch and stand and plop, blatantly into Brad's lap.  
  
"I won't fuck you."  
  
"Ja, you will, mein lieb."  
  
If he weren't batting his eyelashes and batting at Brad's tie as if he were one of those underfed kittens, Schuldig wouldn't have gotten that bruise on his shoulder-blade. He wouldn't have gotten those nail marks on his hips. Perhaps he would have only gotten dumped on the floor in a pile of long limbs and flaming orange locks.  
  
"You're right."  
  
So now he's pushed back against a wall, wearing everything -but- pants (which is really nothing at all) and there's a forceful tongue ravishing his neck, his collarbone, rough hands brushing away sweet smelling strands. Brad hasn't shaved yet, and there are new abrasions on the redhead's face, he doesn't care. He keeps telling himself he likes pain, because he does. But he can't figure out whether he likes causing it, or receiving it. Mostly because he doesn't think much of it - after all, he only cares about the sex. Right?  
  
And now he's sharing thoughts and spit and body warmth and he knows his shoulder's bruising and sharp teeth are tearing his lip and there's hands, nails filed but sharp leaving marks as his hips are lifted up and -down- and he's in fucking heaven. Fucking heaven. Literally. He's fucking heaven. Because there's a cock inside him that's pressing up against all the right places. There's lips and tongue tangling with his own and biting and nipping and pain, pain, pain. And all he wants is more. Because that's the kind of person he is.  
  
All he wants is to hear himself scream because he can't stand silence and he loves the sound of his voice. But there's a growl and a hand muffling his noise because Brad is so neat and calm and collected and noise just brings out the inner beast. And Schuldig's going crazy from the fast hard thrust of hips and ecstasy pain of each sharp jolt, each sharp jolt which only bruises his shoulder further and makes him want to scream more.  
  
But he's already climaxing and his legs are wrapping around and it went by too fast and it's all he really wanted. And -now- he's dumped on the floor in a pile of long limbs and flaming hair and he's lighting up a cigarette despite the death glare. He's not bothering to pull on his pants and watching Brad pull on his. And he takes a drag off his cancer stick and after a moment exhales, counting to ten, because every real smoker can hold it in for ten seconds, or at least that's what he heard. And then, with the jaded look back in his eyes and that cold smirk back on his generous lips and that acid kind of tone he looks over his shoulder and despite the ten minutes or so that have passed, everything's back where it's started. And with another inhale, exhale - he asks:  
  
"So, Brad, why's there a child's toy in the middle of your room?"  
  
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Silania: Once more, this ain't Farf's baby. It's some other thing taking control over my mind and implanting short, non-angsty, smut fics in my brain.  
  
Farf: Reviews hurt God.  
  
Silania: What he said. And I must apologize for any spelling errors, I got my hand slammed in a door and can't use two of my fingers, well one. But it still hurts to type!  
  
Farf: *attempts to chop off finger*  
  
Silania: Idiot! That won't help! Oh yeah, what do you guys think? Schu? B- Chan?  
  
B-Chan: Why -do- I have a child's toy in the middle of my room?  
  
Schu: Why -does- he have a child's toy in the middle of his room? 


End file.
